Page 35 of Choices

“Where is it?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.

The tension expands, snapping like a rubber band when he says, “At the Redwing hangout.”

Sunlight claims the sky, threading through the treeline in woven strands. We’re parked overlooking a field of cracked mud and brown tufts of grass desperate for rain. The Redwing house sits on the border in a row of dilapidated houses, all one earth tremor away from collapsing. Exiting the car and checking the clip in my pistol, I take off the safety and place it in the back of the waistband of my jeans, nodding to Callan over the hood.

We zip our jackets to hide our club colors sitting proudly on our cuts underneath and walk the fifty yards to Michael’s black Mercedes. Monster and Dodger are parked a mile up the road, no explanation needed when Callan told them we had some business to take care of and needed them to sit tight and have their phones ready. They’re good soldiers, and Monster is the brother you want at your back if shit turns sour.

The locks disengage on our approach, and we slip into the back seats on either side, the air conditioner offering a reprieve from the stagnant air. Michael sits in the passenger seat in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair unstyled. For the first time in all the years I’ve known him, he’s not wearing a suit. His driver is in a black suit, sunglasses covering his eyes. After a nod from Michael, he exits the car and stands beneath the canopy of trees.

“I appreciate you meeting me here like this.”

“What’s going on?” Callan speaks to the headrest, side-eyeing me warily.

“We didn’t find Nicolas the night you came over.” There’s strain in his voice, his posture sagging into the leather seat, eyes cast toward the Redwing house. We remain silent, allowing himto collect his thoughts. “His phone was recovered on a member of that fucking street gang.” Clenching the air with his fist, he punches the dashboard, a crack splitting through the air. Blood sprouts from a cut across his knuckles. He doesn’t seem to notice the pain. “We took the skin from his bones, and in his plea to end the suffering, he admitted a bunch of them obeyed an order to feed a body to the river but he didn’t see who it was.”

Someone is looking down on us, offering solution after solution to this fucked up situation. Murder isn’t something new for street gangs, and the timing of this one couldn’t have been better.

“We may never get his body.”

“It might not be him,” I tell him, the words intended to offer hope.

“I want them all fucking dead. We were going to take the leader to send a message, but now—I want them exterminated like the fucking vermin they are. Our father is cautious to pull the trigger on this, but I want it done. Knowing his killer is in there, still breathing, is consuming me.”

“You want us to take care of the problem?” Callan surmises. It’s only fair we have to clear the nest. Eliminating the entire crew is the best-case scenario. No one can deny responsibility if there’s no one left to ask.

“A favor between friends—one I won’t forget and will be indebted to you for.” I should feel like a cunt, sitting with his brother’s blood on my hands while he offers his appreciation and debt, but all I feel is relief. Callan was right. Michael didn’t look further than the Redwings.

We got away with this.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Callan says, “We’ll take care of them.” He pauses, then adds, “It will be done tonight.”

“Burn them all,” Michael breathes, clenching his teeth. “For Nicolas.”

“And you,” I say shamelessly.

We’ll burn them all. Set every last Redwing hangout ablaze. And when they flee like scurrying rats, we’ll be waiting with rifles, ready to shoot them like fish in a barrel. Easy. Fun.

One day, my sins will come for me, drag me into the endless sleep. Not now, though. Now, the Carnells will be in our debt.

CHAPTER 13

I HATE YOU

KITTY

I stare at the goldfish doing laps around the mixing bowl I stole to put him in yesterday, my brain refusing to turn off. Cutter disappeared and never came back to the party. That isn’t like him.Then again, showing up at my door with a damn goldfish isn’t like him either.How long can goldfish live without food?

Sighing, I throw myself back on the bed. I waited all night for the knock to come, but it never did. Not that I would’ve let him in. And I refused to go to him. Alcohol is supposed to numb the pain of heartbreak, but all it did was amplify it. I became lost in my own turbulent thoughts and still can’t escape them now, long after the sun has come up.

I sit up and grab the bowl, sending water splashing over my hands and leave my room, wandering the clubhouse halls. Most of the visitors have left and the prospects cleaned the mess, leaving the smell of disinfectant in the air.

“What are you doing?” I ask when I stumble upon Grease up a ladder.

“Pres wants cameras fitting in the passageways.” He says, tightening a screw and positioning the lens. The ladder looks ready to buckle under his hulky frame, so I take a step back.

“Aren’t the cameras in all the common rooms enough?”

“I don’t ask questions sweetheart, I just do the work.”

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